So she said nothing.
Instead, she let him hold her as the storm raged quietly within her chest. The warmth of his embrace felt like both comfort and a punishment.
Outside, thunder rolled once more, shaking the windowpanes. The crimson moon had vanished, replaced by clouds that churned like ash and shadow.
She closed her eyes, whispering silently to the ghost of the girl whose name she bore:
"Yuwen Yueshuang… what did you leave me to face?"
And deep within her, that faint, foreign heartbeat answered, steady, familiar, and bound by a love that was never hers.
"Shuang'er…" Lian's voice trembled again as she tried to step away. He caught her wrist, then pulled her gently but firmly back into his arms hugging her tightly. The desperation in his touch made her still.
"Don't leave me," he whispered, with sadness... " Please... We will figure out our situation..."
His heartbeat thundered against her ear, ragged and uneven, "You don't know what it's been like. Every night you were gone, the bond burned, and the child..." his voice cracked, breaking the words apart, "the child wouldn't stop crying for you."
Yueyao immediately froze.
Her breath suddenly faltered, eyes widening, "W–what did you just say?"
Lian's hand clenched at the fabric of her robe. "Our son," he said hoarsely, "the one you gave everything to protect. You remember, don't you? The night the curse took hold, he was in your arms.... We can handle the curse, he isn't that seriously affected...."
Her vision suddenly spun. For a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe. A child?
The memories that weren't hers flickered to life, heat, silver light, a cradle hidden beneath a veil of runes. A small hand reaching toward her. A cry that echoed through the dark.
Her knees immediately weakened giving way, "No…" she whispered hoarsely, "That can't be....."
Lian's grip loosened, fear flashing in his eyes, "Shuang'er…? What's wrong? You're pale again." He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. "Don't tell me you've forgotten him too. Don't tell me the curse took even that from you."
She stared up at him, every word slicing through her like a blade. The curse… a child… a bond I never made.
If she denied him now, everything would unravel, her secret, the fact that the original Yueshuang was already dead.
So Yueyao did the only thing she could do at the moment and that was to force a trembling smile.
"I... I just need to see him," she said, her voice barely whispering. She had to see if a child truly existed.
Relief flooded his face, raw and unguarded, "then rest first," he said softly. "He's safe. I kept him hidden, just as you wanted. He just sometimes yearns for you...."
He pressed her hand to his chest, over the place where his heartbeat raced, "We'll bring him back when you're strong enough. No one will take him away from us again."
Yueyao nodded faintly, but inside, terror clawed at her ribs.
There was a child tied to this life, a child that wasn't hers but whose blood called to her all the same.
The revelation of a child, a son, hung in the air between them, a seismic shock that left Yueyao's world tilting on its axis. Her mind reeled, scrambling through the stolen memories she possessed, searching for a flicker of a small face, the echo of a cry. Nothing solid came, only a profound, ghostly ache that seemed to emanate from the very mark on her neck.
Lian saw her pallor, her trembling, and misinterpreted it entirely. He saw the curse stealing another memory, the pain of a mother forgetting her child. The thought shattered the last of his restraint.
"You don't remember," he breathed, his voice thick with a fresh wave of agony. It wasn't a question. He pulled her close again, but this embrace was different. It was not just comfort; it was a desperate, physical attempt to bridge the gap the curse had carved, to make her feel what she could not remember.
His pheromones, already potent with distress, surged anew. This time, they were not just a call, but a command. The scent of storm-wrought iron and ancient cedar wrapped around her, seeping into her lungs, her bloodstream. As his fated mate, in body, if not in soul, her biology was hardwired to respond, to submit, to soothe.
A dizzying weakness washed over her. The protest died in her throat, her muscles going pliant against her will. Her own winter-frost scent bloomed in an involuntary answer, a silent surrender.
"Let me remind you," he murmured against her temple, his voice a low, possessive thrum that vibrated through her very bones. "Let me remind you of what we are. It feels like you have forgotten."
His mouth found hers again.